In the birthplace of light the shadowmongers slink into the cracks in the stones, always waiting to seep back out. They know night is inevitable, even in that hallowed space.
Yet the light does not despair because the shadowmongers must return again to the chinks and cracks and crevices when the light comes back, cresting the eastern horizon, sometimes dimmed by clouds and storm, but always there.
Neither side ever wins completely, as neither side is defeated forever. Those caught in the war between them must always remember that and take nothing for granted. The fight is eternal.
Nothing is permanent. Everything changes. The eternal verities cannot be counted on. There is no Golden Rule unless we make it in our hearts. Many would rather forget this.
They sit in their huts shivering, even on warm days, even with a fire roaring in the hearth, those who would rather forget the nourishing of their souls. They want a paint-by-number theology that does not require deep reflection. And so the mirrors of their souls show nothing at all.
Their lives are a hollow pit, but the Fog of Reckoning creeps beneath the door and down the chimney, reminding them of what they do not want to see, turning soul’s blood to ice.
The Universe is always in balance, wheeling one way then the other until something crashes, something slips, something falls. Then patiently, the Universe rises again, back on the balance beam, struggling once more to recover.
We are here, on the edge of forever, waiting to see which way we will slip. But the light shines on, never more than a temporary prisoner of the night. The light shines on.
Eternal.
